


Heroes of the Dragon Age

by ciarbane (heathenminded)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drabble, Drabble Series, Drabbles, Dragons, F/F, F/M, Flower Crowns, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Multi, Near Death Experiences, Other, Shipping, Tags will be added, battles, book sharing, drowning in fluff, emotional exploration, motivation exploration
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-04-04
Packaged: 2018-05-17 08:33:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5861749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heathenminded/pseuds/ciarbane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every hero of the Dragon Age, thus far. They've all been these people who have been thrust into, leapt into these circumstances.<br/>But sometimes, people seem to forget.. The heroes are people too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter will have its' own summary and its' own warnings-- some will correspond to another in the group, and some will be standalone.  
> Either way, there's going to be a lot.

Sometimes… Sometimes it is spectacularly hard, just to breathe. The walls close in, and she wants to scream and run like all the hounds of every hell are after her. 

The walls here make her want to scream. 

_Breathe._

Litriu sits on the very edge of the wall of Skyhold, staring to the mountains and forests all around her. The air here is cold, but she hardly feels it. She’s so used to the chill, at this point. Used to the sharpness of it.

The stars above her make it bearable, but it’s still not enough. She needs trees, and beasts, and no walls. For a time, this will be all she gets, however. 

Sliding down, back onto the stone, the elf moves with the assured silence that only a rogue can manage, her every motion deliberate. She prowls, more than she walks-- more than half a beast herself.

She wants to tear out of these walls and run until she can’t anymore-- 

_Breathe._

Her feet take her to the stables, before they take her anywhere else. Before the pretender, Blackwall -[i]you aren’t Blackwall, you’re no Warden[/i]- and the horsemaster. 

And the horses. 

Litriu strides right past the men, without a word. The Inquisition has grown used to it, at this point-- since the night she’d appeared, and the morning they’d found her, sitting on their war table with a fox in her lap. Perhaps she’d always had a penchant for the dramatic, perhaps the Blight had developed that-- but she’d enjoyed the look of shock on their faces. 

Surprising the great Nightingale gave her even more pleasure. 

Used to the biting temper, and the sharp tongue-- the ornery Warden kept to herself as much as possible, and when she was around others, it wasn’t often that she was friendly. 

Never needlessly cruel, but rarely friendly. 

_Breathe._

Her hands unerringly cup the muzzle of the blue roan mare in the outermost stall. Her own. Her Verca. The slow breathing of the mare is enough to ease the tremors that were starting in her hands.  
Commander of the Grey. Ranger, assassin. Hero of Ferelden. 

_Claustrophobic loner._

Fingers smooth over the silken muzzle of her friend, as she forces her muscles to relax. The walls of this fucking place make her feel caged, and tight. Miserable. But it had been her choice to be here.  
Her choice to come here, to try and save the fucking world- again.  
To try and save her Wardens from another Commander’s stupid choices. 

_Breathe._

A noise, and her eyes flick, right to Blackwall, as he moves. He’s a carver, she’s noticed. Carving toys, and trinkets, much the same as she did-- though she hadn’t, since the sky had torn apart. 

He’s a liar, a pretender. But not a bad person, which makes him so much worse, because she can’t even justify despising the bastard. She's no paladin of the light. She's a murderer, a beast wearing elvhen skin.

The human looks up to her, but she’s already gone, striding away, and across the courtyard. She likes him fine. Doesn’t mean she has to interact with him. 

_Breathe._


	2. Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet moment between Litriu and Zevran, during the time of Inquisition. My first ever OTP, in all truth, and the one through all of the dragon age games, that's meant the most to me.   
> Fun fact-- Litriu was a Ranger/Shadow/Assassin specialized rogue. So with the whole RANGER bit, which was woefully under-lored, I made my own lore for it. Think Wild Mage from Tamora Pierce.. Without the shapeshifting bit.   
> Litriu has a bit of a Pack of animals, who work with her on a regular basis. The one mentioned in this chapteris Phury, a mountain lion female.

He’s her solace. 

She’d like to think she is the same for him, but she isn’t always sure. He has his bluster, and his impeccable charm, but under that are the wounds, and the warm heart that she glimpsed the day she spared his life.  
There’s a lot of the bluster, however.

Litriu has fallen in love exactly three times in her life. 

Once, with the wilds of the world-- the forests, mountains. Those places where you could feel the souls of the trees-- the history in the ground. 

Once, with the beasts of the world-- those that ran, and flew, on hooves, paws, wings, and claws. The animals that she, as a Ranger, worked with, lived with, and formed bonds with. 

And once, with a snarky, dangerous, golden assassin. 

Sometimes it made her think she was foolish-- but moments like this, she knows she isn’t. Her head in his lap, and nothing but their breathing to fill the silence. They meet in different places-- in cities for him, in forests for her. They haven’t travelled together in too long. But she must save the Wardens from Corypheus, and he must keep control of the Crows, in times such as these. 

Litriu thinks that makes it all the better. Moments like this-- they mean so much, because otherwise they don’t see one another. 

He calls her _da’ghi_ \-- little beast, in her tongue. And her own brogue echoes back to him _corvo d’oro_ \-- golden crow, in his. 

Fingers tangle, in golden hair, and she hears his laughter, as she tugs him down, into a kiss that has them both smiling. It’s a chaste thing, no intent behind it. Just the emotion-- _I’m so glad you’re here._

Zevran had obliged her by meeting her in the forests, this time. The walls of Skyhold driving her mad--and he’d met her where her heart could quiet. 

It wasn’t any wonder that she loved him. 

“I think, my lovely Warden, that you have been overworking yourself.” He says, after another long moment of quiet. His voice is smooth, always smooth, and she chuckles wearily. “Have you not been letting your beasts help you? Is that not what a Pack does?” 

“Shush, bird.” comes the faint reply. “I’m here, relaxing, and you’re trying to lecture me. I say thee nay.” But she’s smiling, slightly, and he is too. Violet eyes flicker to meet gold, and his fingers are in her hair, next, the flame-red like blood through his hands. 

“What would you do if I overworked myself?” he presses, and she scowls, then, shutting her eyes once more. “You would be miffed at me, no?” A gentle tug, and he sighs. “We are not able to watch out for one another right now. Must I bribe that great cat of yours to watch out for you more than you watch out for yourself?”  
Phury would do it for him too. Traitor. 

“I would growl and snarl until you promised to do better with it.” she replies, after a moment of annoyance. She has so many shields, but they’re gone, around him. She can’t bring herself to raise that icy wall that’s kept her alive for so long, that keeps everyone else so far away. But he’s no less vulnerable to her. It’s even. 

“Precisely.” He kisses her, again, and she huffs a laugh into his lips, before framing his face with her hands, as gentle a touch as someone like her can create.

“I missed you, _da’ghi._ I worry about you enough as it is.” He says next, and Litriu makes a long sigh. 

“-- Only if you swear the same to me.” Come the words, after a long moment in which she just looks at him. They’re both jagged, broken things, from lives they’d lived, and people they’d been. They fit, though. He’s not her missing piece, and she isn’t his. But they fit. He calms her storms, and she soothes the fire in him. Two wild things, who found their peace in one another.

And when she looks at him, relaxed and open like this, something in her heart tightens. 

He’s terrible, however, in that his only reply is a scoff. So perhaps he’s been doing better than her. 

“ _Vhenan._ ” Comes the defeated sigh. “Alright. Alright.”

“Much better. If you go around with dark circles on that lovely face, I can’t associate with you.” Comes the inevitable quip, and Litriu rolls her eyes skywards. 

He’s terrible. 

Moving, she curls into him, and can feel the sigh. There’s a smile there-- on both of their faces, though she would deny her own, if asked. It doesn’t matter, though-- a heartbeat later, he’s in her space, and kissing that smile off her. 

Sometimes, she thinks, that the Blight wasn’t the most horrific thing she’s been through. It brought her, after all, to Zevran.  
One beacon, in all the darkness-- she feels, without doubt, considering what the beacon was, that it was a worthy trade.


	3. Storms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I get amazing amazing prompts from my friend cartliaj. Sometimes those prompts inspire the hell out of me. That's what happened here. 
> 
> And thus, we have the shapeshifting knight-enchanter, Reginleit Lavellan, as she fights for Haven-- and then for her own life.

_Her nose was cold and runny, and her fingers were red and stiff. Yet the ruthless biting winter air could not compare to the raging blizzard that stormed within her._ **\--cartilaj**

They’ve noticed, by now, that the elf who heads their fledgeling Inquisition is more than she appeared, that first day. Scared stiff, and barely speaking-- but there had been mettle in her core, Cassandra had thought. She just hadn’t known how much until today. 

Reginleit Lavellan stood in the snow of Haven, the storm and death whirling around her, and she _roared,_ staring down Corypheus and his army without flinching, and nothing but fury in those green eyes. 

She was everywhere at once, more feral than she’d ever been in a fight-- flames roaring from her hands, and the blade of her staff rending anyone who got the idea in their heads to try and take down the Herald-- a title she’s rejected, time and time again. But watching her now, Cassandra has to wonder, if she hasn’t been touched by divinity of some sort. 

\----

Bare feet skid and slide through snow, as she twists to fire off a bolt of electricity from her staff, the movement flowing from her, right into a ducked roll. She’s not unscathed, but the pain is negligible. She’s fighting for the lives of everyone here, after all. Ending on her knees, Regin claps her hands together, and force magic rolls from her in a wave of condensed energy, slamming into two Red Templars. The first is almost rent in two, but the second is simply concussed. She’s wearing down. 

Cassandra’s there, however, taking him out before he can get too close, and the blonde elf ducks her head. She has ten seconds, to catch her breath, and then she’s up again. There are cuts across her arms, and a wicked one down her cheek-- she never did stand in the back, and these were the badges of her recklessness. 

“I’m going to rip him apart.” She informs the Seeker, as the woman walks closer, concern in her eyes. “I’ll do it with my teeth, if I have to.” Her other companions-- Solas, and Bull, glance over in shock. She’s never sounded like this. 

Regin was never a creature of rage. She was a scholar, and a painter, but not this. Not around them, anyway. Though Bull had seen this wildness under the surface from the start. 

Her anger was cold, and steady-- not hot. Not uncontrollable. The storm in her was harsher than the one raging around her. 

Moving, slowly, she looked around them, and smiled, teeth bloody, at the group. “We up for another round or seven?” She can hear the next wave-- running up the hill, and she’s moving before she’s done talking. Bull roars in laughter, following her. “I think that we ought to call you Beast, Boss. You’ve got no quit in you, eh?” 

“Not today.” She laughs, wiping blood from her eyes. “But neither do any of you.” She smiles at him, and then at Solas, at Cass. There’s a sinking dread in her, that this is only going to end one way, but they don’t need to know that. 

Regardless of what happens to her, she’s making sure they get out of here. 

“Lavellan.” Comes that quiet timbre, and she feels it run right through her. Damn. Ears twitch, and Regin glances back at Solas with an arched brow. There’s solemnity in that face-- she doesn’t think he’s ever gotten high off of a fight, like her, like Bull. Cass hasn’t either-- too grim, too serious. But she likes that about them. 

“You should let me heal your wounds.” Solas says, quietly. “Or at least drink a potion.” He’s calm, but it’s all in his eyes-- the worry, and the thoughts that are following the path of her own. 

“You need to focus on your rift magic.” She said, firmly. “Pulling the energy you have into me isn’t worth it if you drain out. If you can twist the veil and pull energy enough, you might be able to cause a reaction with my storm magic-- make an explosion big enough to do more damage.” Her mind is racing-- she doesn’t do joint magic.. Ever, really, but she thinks that their styles of wielding are compatible enough that it could work. 

“-- A potion, then?” Comes the sighed attempt-- he already knows she’s going to refuse. 

“Nope.” She says, shrugging. Saving potions until she really needs them-- until they really need them, is the better plan. Her wounds are minor, right now-- shallow cuts that are more annoying than they are hindering. 

\----------------------------------

Standing in the Chantry, she knew what it was she was going to do, once she walked back out those doors. 

And here she’d sworn _not_ to end up a martyr, when this all began. She sighed, softly, before looking to her group, and walking to them. Two books are taken out of the satchel she always carries, and she hands them to Solas, smiling faintly. 

The hedge mage blinks, as he takes them. A book on theories of magic-stylizations and the Fade, and a storybook-- human and elvhen alike, all in one tome. Pale eyes flick up to meet Regin’s green ones, and she smiles, no hint of fear. 

“Keep them safe for me, yeah? They’re important.” There are sketches, all through the storybook, in the margins… She’s had that one since she was small. 

His gaze is too intent-- sees right through her, but he nods, sliding them into his own bag, quietly. “I will protect them, Lavellan.” 

Her smile is radiant, and then she’s hugging him, tightly. It’s only a moment, but it’s enough to convey the relief, and the gratitude. She knows he wasn’t expecting it-- but she wasn’t expecting him to hold her back, or to give that gentle squeeze. 

Oh.

Turning to Cassandra, she hugs the Seeker as well, and to her credit, Cass doesn’t even sputter. They both know what this is, and that’s a goodbye. Cass manages to hug back, awkwardly, and then Regin’s back, bouncing on her heels, and fist-bumping Bull. 

“The second I give the signal, you’re all running.” she informs them, spinning to start walking out the Chantry, as everyone else heads for the pilgrimage path. “I hear one argument, I’ll knock you out and make Bull carry you.” She’s serious as death, too, and they know she’s not making the threat idly.

Stars but she’s terrified. She’s terrified beyond reason-- she’s only twenty three, she hadn’t thought she’d die this young. Regin’d known she’d likely die young-- she was a mage, an apostate, and a fighter, those didn’t contribute to dying of old age-- but… Stars. Not this young. 

It doesn’t matter. She’s helping these people. She’s helping friends. And if she can take this red-lyrium-darkspawn-bastard down with her, gods it’s more than worth it. 

\---------

He’s huge. 

That’s the first thought in her head. He’s huge. He’s huge, and he smells like death, but she’s not afraid, as he grabs her. It’s strange-- she’s not afraid. 

She thinks, that if she were to have a ‘later’ that she would fall apart _then._ It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had a panic attack due to the Elder One. But he’s monologuing, right now, speaking in that dark voice. Regin can’t do anything but listen. 

She’s so angry. She’s so angry, the storm inside her is screaming, and howling, but she can’t do anything about it. Not with him there. Not with his dragon there-- the massive, corrupted beast eyeing her like a hound watched a hare. Her nose was near-numb, from the chill, and running-- she couldn’t feel her hands, and they were shaking, through her tattered gloves.

“You will kneel.” Demanded the being, as one clawed, terrible hand pointed at her. It had the air of someone so used to being obeyed, that the thought of her _not_ doing so was incomprehensible. 

“I will not submit to you.” She replied, sharply. “I’d rather wed a halla.” The twist in his expression tells her that this might not have been the best moment for her snark. 

But… 

_We are the last of the Elvhen. Never again shall we submit._   
_The people bend the knee too readily._

Regin bowed to no one. Particularly no monstrosities. 

“You will resist. You will always resist. It matters.. Not.” Sighed the massive being, and she fought to calm her breathing, through the pain in her ribs. 

But then he lifted the orb-- that strange, magnetic thing- and spoke of the Anchor-- the light in her palm. _The Anchor. Anchors the physical world against the Fade, seals rifts-- accurat--_  
Her line of thought is cut off. 

He’s activated it, and Regin hisses through her teeth, as the familiar sparking of pain rips through her arm. She folds it across herself, and he’s _still talking_ , chatty bastard, while it feels like he’s attempting to tear her arm clean off. 

“I crafted-- to assault the very heavens.” He concludes, and horror spirals through her again, while that cold storm howls in her chest, as they stare at one another. “And you use the Anchor to undo my work! The gall!” He near-roars this, and she can’t help the automatic response, even as she crashes to her knees in pain. 

Lips curl over teeth to bare them, and the elf snarls at the being, all defiance and fury. “I enjoyed every second of learning about your work-- and unrooting everywhere it’s taken hold.” Regin taunted, before groaning in pain. 

And then he’s _lifting her_ and Regin flails in his grip, panting. Glaring into his face with every bit of emotion she can muster through the pain. He was _it._

He was one of the Magisters who’d breached the Fade. Instantly she wants to know how-- he’s told her the why-- to serve his gods in person-- but how? What had given him the idea, and this-- 

If there was one of the Magisters, were there others? 

Oh Stars. 

“I have seen the seat of the Maker, **and it was empty!”** He roars, throwing her-- right where she needed to be. 

The trebuchet. 

“The Anchor-- is permanent. You have _spoiled it_ with your stumbling!” he snarls, and his dragon circles, like a starved beast. 

“So be it. I will begin again-- find another way to give this world the nation.. And the god that it deserves.” He said, stalking forward with intent. 

But her eyes are past him. She’s stalled him enough because _that’s the flare._ She abruptly wants to sob with relief. They were safe. They would be safe, her people, her friends. They’d made it out of range. 

“--And you. I will not suffer even an _unknowing_ rival. You must die.” come the words-- and he sounds so pleased. 

“You’re a fool. And I can’t wait for you to lose that self-given crown.” She says-- breathless, pained laughter-- and kicks the lever of the trebuchet.

He turns, baffled, and she’s moving, everything in her shrieking in glee as the mountain falls-- collapses to pieces. Feet don’t know where to go-- 

But paws do, and she’s changed mid-stride, the golden wolf moving faster than the elf ever could, and diving into the hole. Snow roars over the opening a second later, and she yelps as she strikes the ground. 

She’s out cold in a second.

\------------------------------------------

Waking is painful. 

The first thing she notices is the pain. It tears through her legs, and her ribs-- every small cut she’d refused to waste energy healing, before, is on fire. Broken ribs, definitely. Bruised beyond measure-- yup. Blonde head ducking to the ground, she focused on breathing. 

She had also, apparently, lost her grip on her wolf form. Great. 

Regin lays there, a long moment, before she feels the panic gripping her chest. Breathing shallowly, too-fast, she rolls to her side, almost screaming. Dislocated shoulder, something wrong with a hip. A sob tears from her, and then she’s in a ball, despite the pain of moving. She’d almost died- she could still die. Alone, in this terrain, no supplies, not even a staff. Gods above. 

She can feel her breathing, too-shallow, to the point where she’s hardly getting air in-- can’t seem to stop herself, though. 

He was a Magister. One of the ones who had begun the Blight. And with red lyrium to boot. This was-- so much worse than she’d been anticipating. And she couldn’t tell the Inquisition-- anything. 

That’s the thought that snapped her to awareness, again. 

They needed to know. 

That’s the thought that has the elf forcing herself to her knees, and then her feet-- walking, slowly, for where she can see a mouth to the cavern she’s in. She can already feel the demons, in the room-- and almost without thinking of it, she creates her own, small, temporary rift-- tearing them both to shreds. 

Her eyes widen, as her hand drops-- and she stares at the mark-- at the Anchor-- in shock.”-- That’s new.” came the tight words, and she swallowed, slowly. 

Fear was a paralytic, and she needed to not give into that poison right now. She needed to-- push on. The shift this time isn’t as panicked as the last. 

No one in the Inquisition is aware, of Regin’s shapeshifting. It’s the one thing she’s kept to herself-- the one thing she needed, to keep herself.. Whole. It was taking all of her, being their Herald. But now, like this, her secret was saving her life. 

A wolf’s fur could take the buffeting winds better than tattered leather armor ever could. 

Walking, slowly, through the high drifts, Regin keeps her jaws apart, breathing as slowly as she could, so she wouldn’t expend energy. It’s slow working, with the pain rushing through her-- one foreleg unusable. But this is better than being on two legs, when she was in the shape she was in.

It’s beautiful, strangely-- the winds blowing the snow, the snow on the stone, and the dark sky, above her head. To the distance, she can see trees-- but up ahead, she has to get through the passes. If she has any hope of finding her way to her people, again, she has to keep moving, and not look back, or she’ll lose herself to panic once more.

The first pause comes at a small, used fire pit. It’s ice-cold, to her soft nose-- but it’s very clear, too, what it means.   
She could have sobbed. Cullen, Leliana, Josie. Her group. They were leaving markers-- hoping she would find them. 

Stupid, foolish hearts, all of them, and she adored them for it, in that moment.

Regin’s only made it a few more steps, when the howling begins. 

Other wolves-- true wolves, and her head swings, to the sound, with lowered ears. Tired paws continue moving, but she’s-- listening. They’re singing, and they’re calling. 

_This way, sister. This way to your pack._

She’s too tired to wonder, and too stunned to question it, her own, cracked voice rising in gratitude. But then she has to move again.

The wolves and the markers keep her in the right path, keep her going. 

It’s hours, by the time she’s found the warm one-- and then she loses her grip on the wolf once more. Her flanks are in agony, and her right arm is hanging uselessly to her side. Almost there. With how energy flows, they can’t have left this one long, and she’s almost there, but the exhaustion in her limbs is so hard to fight.

It doesn’t matter. 

One more time. 

Moving, slowly, she inhales, and forces herself to her feet-- and then she’s staggering, limping to the next hill, and sliding partway down it.

“It’s the Herald!” comes a shout-- Stars, that’s Cullen. 

And Regin collapses in the snow, sobbing her relief and pain, while they rush to her side. 

_Thank the stars. Thank the wolves._

Perhaps the storm that was inside her, was fiercer than the one she’d just survived.


	4. Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fluffy moment between Solas and Regin, because I needed it in my life. Prompt once more by the amazing cartilaj.

_"Despite her flaws and short comings, she was nothing but perfection in his eyes. For she was mortal and he was immortal. And all mortal men were riddled with flaws; but her? She was the perfect mortal and she was his to keep."_

She’s not one for restraint, in many things. 

Reginleit Lavellan is a being of emotion, with everything she felt, expressed. If she felt, she usually acted on it. Holding her own emotions back did no one any good-- least of all herself. 

In a way, she thought that was why she and Solas got along so well. He was more restrained-- cautious in his words, in what he allowed to be seen-- but she figured that was because he felt just as keenly as she did. 

In the Exalted Plains, now -the _DALES_ , fuck you Orlais- they were camped with Varric and Cassandra, as the night sky darkened above them. 

Solas is reading one of the tomes they’d found while exploring today, and Regin wanders over to him, quietly-- bare feet on grass never make much sound. He doesn’t even know she’s there, until she folds up, suddenly, dropping to sit beside him-- then again, to lean on his shoulder. There’s a jerk, in the bald mage’s body, and she grins, wolfishly at him. 

Those blue eyes raise to hers, and soften. He looks at her, like this sometimes. Like she’s something precious, and it makes Regin’s heart skip a beat (or six.) 

“Anything interesting in this one?” She asks, softly, and he nods, shifting so that she can read the pages with him.

“Theories on how some mages become more adept to one form of magic than another.” Solas says, in that gentle timbre. Yesterday they had found an old Dalish storybook-- she had delighted in reading the tales to him, though was mildly sure he’d only been humoring her, with his opinion on the People.  
It meant a lot, even still. 

“So, you with your Rift Magic, and me with the whole.. Dual-nature, bit.” He was, currently the only member of the Inquisition to know of her shapeshifting. His eyes crinkle, slightly, in a suppressed smile at her wording, but there’s a nod. 

“I love it. I’m interested.” Regin declares, leaning further on him to see the pages better. Solas grunts, and blows blonde hair out of his mouth, but moves his arms to accommodate her, one   
arm winding around her waist. 

That brings a pleased smile, to her lips, as she looks at the book, and focuses on the knowledge drawn onto the pages of it.   
Hours pass, before they finish-- mostly because Regin can’t sit still for more than ten minutes, and kept squirming to move, get comfortable. Solas’ only reaction was to roll his eyes skywards and sigh-- though she knew that if she were truly being a bother, he’d tell her to go. 

Cassandra has gone to bed, by this point-- Varric as well, so the camp was exceedingly quiet. Spinning, Regin glanced at her partner, a faint smile on her tanned face.

“You’re doing it again.” She tells him, quietly. 

“Doing what?” Solas asks, as he sets the book aside and turns to look at her, quietly. 

“Looking at me like I’m something miraculous.” Her tone is dry, but he strokes the scar crossing her left cheek, gently. 

“You are.” Come the simple words. “You.. Change everything.” It was an echo, of the words he’d shared on that trip to the Fade, and Regin inhales, slowly, before she leans forward. 

Pressing her forehead to Solas’, and cupping the back of his neck, she meets his eyes, searching them. 

“I’m nothing more than Regin Lavellan. You, you’re miraculous.” She gives him a lopsided smile. “You’re clever, and kind, when you’re not being high-handed. You’re funny in that dry way-- and you’re incredibly poetic.” She swallows, for a moment-- he hasn’t blinked, just watching her. 

“I’m the Inquisitor, I’m a scholar, and an adventurer. And you, Solas, are someone that I love sharing my adventures with. _Ar lath ma._ ” 

He’s quiet, for a long moment, before he’s cupping her face in his hands, and drawing her down-- his lips end up covering hers. It’s gentle, that kiss. The kind of kiss that people dream about, that rocks a person to their very core. 

Her hands are shaking, a little, against his neck, when they part. 

“ _Ma vhenan._ ” He says to her, simply, and Regin gusts out a breath, before dropping her head onto his shoulder. “You are not ‘just’ anything. Believe me.” 

“Neither are you.” She replies, pressing another, soft kiss to his jaw before she sits back, a little, her eyes only a little wet. She’d deny it, if he said anything-- and he doesn’t. Wise male.

“Come on now. I’ll wake Cass to sit watch, and you and I can go wander the Fade together.” Regin says, gamely, as she rises and offers him a hand up. He takes it, without hesitation, and moves with her. 

Yes, she thinks, quite firmly. He felt just as keenly as she.


	5. Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Evune Lavellan, because they make me smile. I'm not overly pleased with this one, but it's kinda cute, so I'll live with it.   
> Prompt, again, from the stunning Cartilaj.

_In which the Inquisitor's lover surprises him/her with a bouquet of flowers and promptly proceeds to weave them into his/her hair._

Evune has a bad habit of working herself for too long. She doesn’t relax much, when she’s around Skyhold. Cullen supposes that they got lucky, with that. She wasn’t the type of person to slack off, or that they had to push into doing their job. But Evune was.. Well. She liked to work. Liked to keep her mind and hands busy. And while she’d said, multiple times, that she’d rather be doing the scouting than the paperwork. 

She fits more into Leliana’s world, than his or Josephine’s. 

Tonight, though, that doesn’t much matter, he supposes. He knows she’s working in the gardens, and so that’s where he’s headed, armor loud in the near-silent halls of Skyhold. There are so many people, now, that the quieter hours are treasurable-- particularly by him, with how the voices can worsen his headaches. 

Slipping out the door, he spots her, with a ball of magic serving as a light as she works with reports that correspond to a map of the Emprise that’s spread out before her. The magic, brings a frisson of tension to his frame, for only a moment, before he relaxes. It’s habit, after the Ferelden Circle-- but he’s been.. Improving. 

Evune has played a large part in that. 

The light plays off her coloring, making her look more like a ghost than she already does-- eerie, in a mesmerizing sort of way. She’s chewing on the end of her white hair, as she works, and he almost laughs-- she’s always chewing her hair, or a quill, or her nails. It’s a bad habit, but an endearing one. 

Cullen clears his throat, so that she can hear him coming-- her pointed ears twitch, and that’s the only sign there is that she’s heard him. 

Walking forward, he sits beside her, in the grass, and Evune looks up, finally, pale eyes owlish for a moment. “-- Commander.” She said, surprised, and he chuckled, softly, at the formality. “Evune.” Comes the reply-- and she relaxes. Nothing work related. 

“I haven’t seen you-- All day, I’m sorry.” She said, softly, setting her map aside and leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Here to collect me, then?” There’s something wry in her tone-- probably because he’s had to do just that, in the past. 

“Not exactly. Just here to.. Spend some time.” He replied, a little awkwardly, perhaps-- but the warm smile he receives makes it more than worth it-- as does the kiss to his cheek. 

“Well, then you’ve just made my night.” She says, decisively-- and then blinks, as he brings forth the hand he’d been holding behind his back, and the small bunch of flowers held carefully in an unarmored hand. 

“--Oh.” Come the softer, startled words, and he laughs, weakly. “I.. Saw them, and thought you might like them. That’s-- All, really, I just-” 

“I love them.” She said, sharply, pressing her face into the blooms. “I was just surprised, Lion. No one’s brought me flowers before.” There’s a flush of pink over her cheeks, and she peers up at him, quietly. 

“Thank you.” The simple words from her, and that shy smile-- he can’t really take it, after a moment, and leans forward to catch her lips with his. Her surprise is a jump, but then her hand is in his hair, and his is cupping her neck. A kiss that had started out clumsy, becomes gentler, and sweet enough to ache. 

Pulling back, his own smile is crooked, and he laughs-- just a gentle puff of sound. “You’re welcome.”

Shaking her head slightly, Evune turns back to the flowers-- and then smiles, faintly, fingers starting to work at the stems. He frowns-- wondering if perhaps he’d missed seeing some thorns on the blooms, but leaves her to it, turning to look over the map that she’d been studying so intently. 

It’s a few long moments like that, before there’s a sudden light weight on his head-- and the Commander jumps, turning to face her, even as a hand slides up to see what she’d done. Evune’s grin is cat-like in smugness… 

And she’d woven him a flower crown. 

Cullen let out a mockingly long-suffering sigh. “You are a minx.” He informs her, a hand moving to see how it laid on his head. 

But he didn’t take it off, and that, in her eyes, said a lot. Even if one of the passing scouts did have to muffle their laughter.

“You like me this way.”

He couldn’t argue that point.


	6. Should've Worshipped him Sooner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"He didn't realize how late he had stayed up-- not until he looked out the window to see the sun rising. Dawn was breaking, her colors cast across the horizon in a passionate array of reds. Behind him, he could hear the sheets rustle as his lover slowly roused. Turning around, he faced the naked figure tangled in silk sheets._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  _"Maker, you're beautiful," the figure in the bed said breathlessly, his lower absolutely glowing in the morning light."_
> 
> I needed to do my Angello Trevelyan, with Dorian because I ship them hard enough that it hurts a bit. Angello is actually Antivan-- and a former Crow. Scarred, awkward, stiff male, and he falls so hard for Dorian I worry that he might have busted his chin up on the ground.

_"He didn't realize how late he had stayed up-- not until he looked out the window to see the sun rising. Dawn was breaking, her colors cast across the horizon in a passionate array of reds. Behind him, he could hear the sheets rustle as his lover slowly roused. Turning around, he faced the naked figure tangled in silk sheets._

_"Maker, you're beautiful," the figure in the bed said breathlessly, his lower absolutely glowing in the morning light."_

Angello Trevelyan had never slept well. Even before all of this nonsense with Corypheus, and the Fade, it had just avoided him. Or he it. Either way, the man was sitting awake-- nude and unbothered by it, at the foot of his own bed. 

Quill moving across parchment, he sketches the figure, lone in his bed-- nothing but sweeping lines, and blank spaces. They slept on, while he worked-- oblivious to the fact that he hadn’t slept at all. 

Pausing, he looks up, again, to the tanned face of the Altus, and a smile twitches at Angello’s lips. It’s not an expression he’s accustomed to making-- assassins don’t have time to smile in wonder at the little things, not when it’s kill or be killed, scrambling to keep one’s head above the bloody water. The sharks below won’t ever stop circling, after all. 

_He’s smiled more in the months with the Inquisition than he has his entire life._

A slow breath, and he looks over his shoulder, to the windows. He’d been working by candlelight, for most of this project, but now the dawn is peaking over the mountains. 

_Raise your blades, the dawn will come._

But his blades are sheathed, and away, and he has no desire to return them to his hands. It has been so long since he’d touched anything with any sort of reverence-- but he did. With Dorian, he did. 

He knew no religion, claimed to none, but spirits he could feel nothing but wonder when he was tangled with the Tevinter man. 

It was something of an accident-- all of this, them getting together, them staying with one another as night fades to day. Angello’s flirtations are more of a smokescreen than anything, hazes to hide behind, but when Dorian had bantered back-- Angello hadn’t wanted it to stop. Teasing comments led to innuendo led to blatant stares and then to hidden truths. Hidden truths to deeper conversations and trust shared-- then, and then--

And then a kiss that had seared the breath from his lungs, and the thoughts from his mind for a few good moments, leaving him relying heavily on those bookshelves for support. Dorian had fared better… But Angello had seen his knees wobble, as he stepped back.

Looking back down, he’s focused-- and though his ears catch when Dorian’s breathing shifts, when he starts to wake, he doesn’t look up, and no tension enters his muscled frame. There’s nothing to fear-- not when they’re alone together. And they are-- he knows that, as he knows when someone’s eyes are too sharp on his neck, or when he knows that they’re being followed before even the Iron Bull does. 

The sun at his back makes everything brighter, as he looks at Dorian-- the perfect natural light to capture that languid beauty that comes when the Altus is sleeping. Dorian would never agree-- his hair is tousled, his mustache perhaps a little rumpled. There’s no kohl on his eyes-- though there is a little bit, smudged beneath them, endearingly. (Angello thinks that might be perhaps his fault- he’s not sure if he should apologize for that or not. Should he? Maybe.) 

Manners of long-term bedmates are something he’s out of practice with. Lovers, even less so. 

He’d slept perhaps two hours, tangled with the paler man, and that in and of itself was a blessing. But perhaps only now he’s realizing how long he’s been awake-- and what that might seem like. Guilty, a moment, he almost reddens, but looks, instead, as Dorian inhales, sharply. 

“ _Maker’s breath,_ but you are beautiful.” He sounds reverent-- startled, and still half-asleep, but he’s found that people are more honest in such a state. Angello's gaze catches on him, and he wants to rebuke it. (How can Dorian find him beautiful, when he's sitting there looking like some god come to earth himself?)

And that’s what really does make the assassin redden, placing his book and charcoal aside, watching Dorian with a faint smile. “You are, from where I’m sitting.” He says, simply-- but Dorian is always beautiful, rumpled and sleepy or made up and swaggering. 

Dorian lets out a chuckle, soft as down, and then shifts. He’s moving, and an arm is around Angello’s wrist, tugging him forth. He goes, easily, curling into place around the mage, and propping a shadowed chin on a muscled shoulder and closing his eyes. “Were you cold?” 

“Perhaps I just wanted you up against me, you oaf.” Comes the inevitable scoff, and he feels the smile forming on his mouth right as Dorian notices. “As if you have any complaints.”

“Not a single one.” He agrees, pressing a soft kiss to the skin of Dorian’s collarbone-- rewarded by the shudder and speckle of red across his chest and cheeks. There is, however, no complaint from _him_ either, and he feels a mite of pride, in that. 

He knows he loves the mage. Isn’t sure if Dorian feels the same-- (he hasn’t asked, what that nickname means. Figures the mage will tell him when he feels ready. And if he calls Dorian ‘ _amante_ ’ in his own tongue, neither of them have brought it up yet.) but he hopes. He hopes, and he waits. 

Waiting could be a fool’s game-- but pushing too hard would make the other only want to flee-- he knows this. He’s the same. All he can do in the meantime is be himself. Be there with the other, and bask in their moments together-- something he’s never been allowed, something he’s never allowed himself. 

Something neither of them had ever dared hope for, he knows. 

They have a few hours, in which to lay with one another and just **be**. Angello wishes to take use of every moment of that, and he shifts, tugging Dorian more tightly to his chest.

(And if he feels that gentle, warm gaze that Dorian slots on him whenever he thinks Angello isn’t paying attention, he doesn’t mention that, either. Though perhaps, for a while after, the mage notices that he smiles easier, his eyes more alive than they ever seemed.)

(Varric teases him rather mercilessly for it, later, when they're among the others, and that only makes the mage smile to himself behind his tome. His amatus was too easy for the others, sometimes.)


End file.
